


dead, not gone

by redribbonmagpie



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: AU in which Martin dies at the end of S3 protecting Jon, Angst, F/F, Grief/Mourning, I Will make up powers for Avatars why do you ask?, Jon Gets Depressed!, Lonely!Jon, M/M, Multi, Oliver is probably ooc and not s5 accurate bc I keep putting off listening to it, The End!Martin, but! hes only dead for a while, i mean Hes still the archivist but Boy Howdy does he get deep into the Lonely, its sad times my lads, so so so so so much angst
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-05-26
Updated: 2020-06-08
Packaged: 2021-03-02 20:36:14
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 7
Words: 5,420
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24392911
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/redribbonmagpie/pseuds/redribbonmagpie
Summary: Tim is dead, Daisy is missing, and Martin is gone, and all Jon can feel is numb.
Relationships: Basira Hussain/Alice "Daisy" Tonner, Georgie Barker/Melanie King, Martin Blackwood & Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist, Martin Blackwood/Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist
Comments: 27
Kudos: 98





	1. numb

Tim is dead, Daisy is missing, and Martin is gone, and all Jon can feel is numb.   
He knows he should feel something. He’d learned about the cycle of grief- he knows what he _should_ be feeling. But all he feels is heavy, like his body has gotten more dense, and his breathing feels thick and laboured, his heart thudding quietly, each echoing beat a stabbing reminder that he was still here, he was still alive, even as his world had crumbled around him. 

  
There was nothing left of Tim to mourn. The explosion had practically vaporized him, and the coroners hadn’t been able to tell what splatters of flesh were his and what were those things that the Stranger had been using. It was relieving, in a way. Jon didn’t have to see his empty eyes, his limp body. But guilt stabbed him like a knife even at the thought of being relieved there was no body. At least his headstone was next to his brother’s. That was some small relief. But it was wiped away by the sight of his parents sobbing over it. 

  
Daisy had practically disappeared. Basira had rummaged through all the rubble herself, fighting off the officers who tried to lead her away, shouting and sobbing. It was jarring to see the usually calm woman torn apart by grief. They never found anything to say that Daisy Tonner was alive, but they didn't find anything that said she was dead either. 

  
But Martin…   
Stupid, foolish Martin. He didn't have to jump on Jon, shielding him from the blast. He could've ducked behind the wall and survived. He should have. But he didn't.   
Jon spent all his waking hours and most of his sleeping at his bedside, worriedly watching the heart monitor as it began to slow, holding the hand that dwarfed his own- a hand that shouldn’t have been so cold - watching the IV drip as the hours passed. 

  
He woke up to the piercing noise of a flatline.   
He wanted to cry, to scream or shout or fight as the nurses and doctors scrambled in, hurriedly trying to revive him. But he just stood in the corner, too numb to think, to do anything but stare and hope. 

  
And so all the Archivist could do was watch.  
Watch as Martin’s heart refused to start. Watch all the injections, all the medication pumped into his body in vain, trying to stave off the inevitable. Watch as the bustle slowed, the shouts turned to murmurs. Watch as someone unplugged the heart monitor. As someone put a gentle hand on his shoulder and tried to steer him away.   
It was only when they brought in the sheet that he could move. 

  
He keeps putting off the funeral. He knows he shouldn’t, that he should let Martin rest, finally. But he’s selfish. He doesn’t want to surrender the body to the grasp of the Buried. He wants to be able to watch Martin, make sure nothing touches him.

  
It was Basira that ended up telling him that enough is enough and they should get it over with. She was still so firm, so strong, determined that she was going to protect whoever remained and god help whoever stood in her way. Jon envies her. He doesn't think he’s ever felt weaker. 

  
Seeing Martin in a suit is almost as wrong as seeing him in a coffin.   
He’s too clean, too _neat_. Martin was never neat- he was messy, with rumpled hair and patched sweaters and stained shirts, with nails bitten raw and chapped lips. The suit is a stark black, the shirt a clean, pressed white. The makeup can't hide the almost grey hue to his skin. Jon hates it. This isn't his Martin. The only thing that feels right is the small bundle of daffodils in his hands, a splash of yellow against the stark white and black. It’s Georgie who brings them, and Jon wonders how she found something so fitting despite having never met him. 

  
The funeral is small. He gives a brief eulogy that feels hollow and sour even as he says it, despite the hours he’d spent on it. When it's over, they leave slowly, one by one, all dressed in black, until it's Jon and the gravediggers. The sky had turned overcast and a chill was creeping in as the first few shovelfuls of dirt scattered on top of the coffin. Jon stays as the dirt piles up. He stays as the gravediggers pack up and leave. He stays as tendrils of fog appear silently, still watching, always _watching_ , the grave. It doesn't feel real. 

  
Tim is dead, Daisy is missing, and Martin is gone, and all Jon can feel is numb and alone. 


	2. daffodils and salt

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> boxes, sweaters, notebooks, and dreams - a list of bittersweet things

Jon hates going through Martin’s flat. Everything he touches feels like a betrayal somehow, as if his hands bleed on whatever he picks up. But he’s the only one who’s going to do it, and the thought of it all being sold off without a care makes him ache.   
He can't bring himself to get rid of any of it, of course. It doesn't matter if it's one of the dozens of books on his shelves, the art on the walls, the piles of notebooks labeled “poetry”. In the end, he boxes it all up and takes it to his place. He’s not sure what else to do. 

  
Jon doesn't mean to put on the sweater at first. It was just out- a dark forest green cable knit, soft and large. The chill in the apartment had become persistent, and he blindly reached out and grabbed whatever was closest. It smells like green tea and dust and a flowery shampoo that’s a harsh contrast to Jon’s own, and there's a carefully darned hole on the left sleeve. He feels sick when he realizes, and moves to tug it off, but though it makes him ache, the ache is bittersweet. He hadn't realized how much he’d missed the smells that he’d barely noticed. He keeps it on. He ends up wearing a lot of the others, too. He can't help it- he’s too desperate for any last trace of Martin to think about what he’s doing too much. 

  
He hasn't gone into work for a while, but Elias or the new Peter person haven't even tried to call him and Jon isn't anywhere close to being ready to go back in anyways. Instead, he reads. He reads every single book from Martin’s flat, and when they run out, he reluctantly cracks open the notebooks labeled “Poetry”. Jon is insistent that he doesn't like poetry- he has been since college. It always seemed such a sappy, sentimental way to express feelings. Jon preferred to bury them deep inside himself, like any sensible person. But there, scrawled messily in pen and pencil on rumpled, stained, smudged pages, was Martin’s heart. Pages and pages of worries, anxiety, loneliness, hope. Some were over a decade old, some as recent as the past few months. It takes him a while to notice some are love poems, and longer to realize they're about him. 

  
Reading the volumes and volumes of poetry that Martin had likely intended to never see the light of day, let alone end up in Jon’s hands, makes Martin come alive again. Only for a few moments, when he forgets why he’s sitting in the dark, undressed, squinting at a notebook from the light of a table lamp. 

  
Is it possible to fall in love with someone once they're dead? If so, Jon has fallen head over heels for a person he never once had tried to know when he had the chance. His guilt ebbs and flows like the tide, slowly pulling away his stability until he can almost feel the salt spray on his face and the cold water in his feet. 

  
He wants to cry, but for the life of him, he can't. 

  
He thinks something might be wrong with him, and at this point he doesn't care. 

  
And when he finally slips off into a restless, feverish sleep, his dreams are mismatched and dark. There’s an endless, foggy shore, calming in its numbing loneliness. But sometimes the image cracks, an imperfect reflection, peeling like wallpaper, and he hears Martin, calling his name, desperate and muffled.

Then the lulling waves return, and his worry and confusion bleeds into obedient despair. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This one is a little shorter, but it felt like it had a natural ending place so I let it be. boy, this is really angsty, huh? don't worry, Jon won't be allowed to sulk alone forever, and Martin isn't happy staying dead for long. in other news, I ended up making an idle gif of Martin based off of this fic! here's the link if you're curious :3 (https://hoidingaroundthecosmere.tumblr.com/post/619224488069988352/took-a-break-from-my-big-tma-animatic-to-make-an) I also can't believe there are already comments and followers despite this being up for literal hours. you guys are amazing, and all of your comments bring me great joy! (especially if you're bemoaning the sadness. I live for that because That's My Joy). comments and kudos if you want! thanks for reading!!


	3. void

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> darkness, a taperecorder, and a dead man.

Death isn't what Martin expected.   
Of course, he realizes after a while that it _can't_ be death. He’s not sure how he knows the difference- the vast, endless darkness very well could be the afterlife. But he does know. 

  
It wasn't like Martin was unused to the concept of death itself. When he was 7, his cat died. When he was 16, his best friend committed suicide. When he was 24, his mother died. He was used to the grief and guilt that came with it, and the ever present fear of what was to come. But nothing could compare to the feeling of your own heart stopping and the sickening drop that came after. 

  
For a long time, he tried to walk in various directions, looking for an end to the darkness. It didn't take long for him to realize that it was futile, but he keeps walking anyways, out of some lingering stubbornness. He has to get back, to Jon and Tim, hell, even Melanie and Basira and Daisy. 

  
He has a lot of time to think as he walks. He doesn't get tired, or thirsty or hungry. His legs don't ache, his breathing doesn't catch. It takes very little effort, really, to keep moving. Martin talks to himself out loud, mostly, to fill the empty space. Sometimes he sings or whistles. He wishes he had pen and paper, so he could write, though he's not sure he'd even have a solid surface to write on. Even a tape recorder would've been nice, so he's not talking to just _nothing_ -

  
When he thinks that, he feels something appear in his pants pocket. He wasn't even sure if he had pockets anymore, but apparently he did, because he reached in and pulled out a tape recorder, already clacking away. 

  
“Well, hello there,” He said, curiously watching the tape inside the case whir and wind. The sound- any sound- was reassuring. “I guess it's just us two, huh?”   
Martin feels a little crazy, talking to the piece of plastic like it could actually listen. Then again, it was of the Ceaseless Watcher, so who knew? Maybe Jon could hear him somehow.   
The thought excited and scared him. 

  
“I don't really know if anyone's listening,” he said, resuming his endless walk. “If that's even possible. It might be, though. Who knows how these things work.”   
“I...died. But I'm not dead. Well, maybe I am, but I'm not gone.”   
“It's.. weird, here. I don't feel real, or solid. I try to look down at myself, and I sort of… fade out as I look, though out of the corners of my vision I look as real as I ever was. I think I'm wearing a suit- it's itchy, and uncomfortable, but only sometimes. There’s really no sense of.. anything, here.”

  
He sighed, automatically moving his hand to adjust his glasses, even though they weren’t crooked.   
“I’m worried about the others. I don’t know if anyone but Jon is alive. I- I need to get out, to find them, but I dread that this darkness just goes on forever. I’m worried I’ll just keep walking until all my senses are gone and I’m alone with my thoughts and I’ll go insane and just- cease to be. ...I guess I worry a lot. But it feels pretty justified, right now.”

  
“...I miss Jon. I miss everyone. I don’t like it, this.. this loneliness. That’s why I’m going to keep talking. I don’t know who or what is on the other end, but I’ll die before I stop talking and to hell with anything that tries to stop me.”   
The stubbornness is warm and comforting, like a fire in his chest, but one that warms instead of burns. He walks a little faster.

  
“I’m going to list 100 things I care about,” he said firmly to the darkness and the recorder. “Number one: tea. It’s so warm, and relaxing, and the smell and taste are just lovely. Number two: Jon. He’s a paranoid, irritated idiot, but I… I think I love him, despite that. I love the way he sloppily ties up his hair, the frown he makes when he focuses, the way he scrunches his nose at stuff he doesn’t like. Number three: sunlight.”

  
His voice, never stopping, never faltering, filled the void with echoes of life.   
And if the darkness seems a bit less dark, and a unlabeled cassette tape appears on Basira’s desk, then maybe, just maybe, there was a reason to hope. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm still surprised at how quickly I'm writing this- probably bc compared to sdadmip the chapters are really short! so Martin's chilling in an endless void, which isn't great, but he's not alone! He's got... well, a taperecorder, but hey- better than nothing? next ch will mostly likely be half Elias and Peter convo and half Basira and maybe Georgie and Melanie. thanks so much for all the comments and kudos and followers already! you guys are amazing (and hearing you bemoan the angst I got teary-eyed writing is truely a pleasure. tbh I'm a Sap. idk how I ended up writing this angst). more comments, kudos, etc are appreciated! thanks for reading!! :D


	4. casette

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> visitation and deliveries.

“So you’ve finally come to visit me.”   
Elias’s voice is dry, and if Peter didn't know better he’d think that his absence had actually upset the man. Instead, he half shrugs from the other side of the glass, his greatcoat rustling as he did so.   
“I've been busy,” he said, though it was a lie and both of them knew it. “Your Archivist has been needy.”   
“Yes, I sensed that,” Elias said with a frown. “I suppose it works for part of the plan, though I hadn't expected it to go quite this far.”   
Peter, who’d been distracted by how nice Elias looked in orange, glanced up at the pointed edge to his voice.   
“It's not my fault,” he said, a bit annoyed. “He hasn't been doing great after his assistants died. He hasn't even gone into the Institute.”   
That made Elias raise an eyebrow. “Really? Shockingly, Peter, I already knew that.”   
Someone else might have been hurt, but Peter had been around Jonah- Well, he was Elias now, wasn't he? It didn't particularly matter the body, the same acrid wit and cunning remained- for enough time that the insult barely registered.   
“I hadn't thought he would spiral this quickly,” Elias mused. “He seems most upset over Martin. I have no clue why, the boy was a lazy fool and his feelings for Jon were quite unrequited last time I checked.”  
“Clearly haven't checked recently,” Peter said. He itches to pull out a cigar and hide his face in a cloud of smoke, but he suspects that would set off the fire alarm and cause quite the ruckus. Instead, he crosses his arms. “Your Archivist has practically been living on my shoreline.”   
“Don't tell me you mind the company.”  
Peter scowls reflexively. “I do, and you know it. Surely the Lonely has left its trace by now.”   
“Give him some time, Peter. It's only been a few months.”   
“It's your Avatar.” He shrugs. “I've sent him enough statements to stay alive, like you asked, and had that lady- Basira Hussain- managing the remaining assistants.”  
Elias nodded his approval. “Good. Come back if things get… drastic.”  
Peter stood and turned away, relieved, but was stopped by Elias’s almost teasing voice.   
“No small talk?”   
He sighs, and turns back to see a smug smirk on Elias’s face.   
“I suppose it's in your nature. Oh well. Goodbye, Peter. Don't be a Stranger.”   
He can't help but roll his eyes at the pun as he tugs his coat further around him and slips out of the room, undetected by the security guard. 

•=•=•

Basira had thought that when she'd been forced to join the Institute that it was the worst thing that could happen to her.   
That was before… well, before the Unknowing.   
She hurt- she hadn't thought that she could hurt that much. Her work fell into a numb sort of busy routine, a welcome distraction from her grief. She could just zone out and work- mindlessly filing paperwork and copying statements until the hours passed in the blink of an eye. It wasn't enough to ignore all the empty desks and the absence of those who’d worked at them, but it was enough to bring back some of the steely resolve she’d always been so proud of.   
Part of her wants to hate Jon for abandoning her and Melanie. The other part of her wishes she could do the same things, wallowing in grief and guilt and self-pity for weeks and weeks. But Basira has never been like that. She doesn't crumble when someone tears her apart. She grows stronger, and colder, and she makes sure it doesn't happen again. So she doesn't waste energy on Jon.   
She was just getting up to get herself another cup of tea- how she missed when Martin would always arrive just as she was finishing, seemingly always on time and happy to refill- when the door swung open. It wasn't Melanie, back from her lunch break, as Basira had expected, but a burly man in a delivery uniform. He had a coffin on his shoulder, almost carelessly, like it weighed nothing at all.   
“Delivery for the Archivist,” He muttered sullenly.   
“He’s not in. Just set it down against the wall.” She doesn't want to question it at the moment. The wood and the chains and the burly man- they were all a distraction. He did so, but watched her with a frown.   
“I wanted to talk to the Archivist,” he said slowly.  
“Don't we all,” Basira said dryly. “I can try to relay a message, if that's what you have.”   
The man grunted, clearly displeased. “...that feral one. She’s in there. I wanted him to know, to know that she was there but he could do nothing to save her. Like… like Hope.”   
Basira stiffened. At that opportune moment, Melanie appeared in the doorway, scowling as she pushed her way past the man’s imposing frame.   
“Basira, what's this? Oh, I think I remember a statement about that thing.”  
“Mine or Daisy’s statement. I- I've seen you before, you and this coffin.” She stared at Breekon, her dark eyes boring through his skull.   
“Like I said. Feral one is in there and you can't do anything about it.” He sounded proud, almost smug. Melanie, who’d made her way partly across the room, looked between him and Basira.   
“Oh,” he added, almost as an afterthought. “And I found this tape. Take it, it's one of yours.” He reached into his pocket and carelessly tossed it to Melanie, who caught it despite her confusion.   
“What's on it? Wait, do you mean Daisy is in that coffin? Wait-”   
But the man had already left, leaving the two women with two clues and no idea where to start.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I may have rushed the last part (mostly because I Hate writing Breekon, hes boring af, and I feel like my Basira is ooc) but hey! two more chapters in a day! this is a new record for the fastest I've consistently updated a fic. I'm not sure if I want to continue with Melanie and Basira and the Coffin/Cassette deal or go back to my sad boy Jon, but I'll figure it out when I write it I guess! I still can't believe how quickly this is gaining traction, but all you followers, commenters, kudoers: you rock!!   
> thanks for reading! :3


	5. eye for an eye

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> anchors, eyes, graves and daffodils.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> tw: mild gore, eyeball is cut out but not describe graphically, fic typical grief/depression

“You're sure you want to do this?”   
Melanie held the knife aloft questioningly in one gloved hand. She watched Basira’s face closely, head cocked slightly. There's a little bit of the same fervor Daisy used to get gleaming in her eyes, but also a great deal of apprehension. 

  
Basira nods, taking one last deep breath, feeling the almost numbing amount of painkillers churning through her blood. 

  
They’d planned it down to the last detail. Melanie had insisted on sterilizing everything, as well as having a hot iron ready to cauterize the wound. Apparently she’d been planning on going into nursing before she became a podcaster, and her memories and intuition paid off. They’d waited until a Sunday when the office was sleepily quiet and nearly empty. The plastic had been carefully rolled out, and Basira wore clothes she’d been planning on getting rid of anyways, and her least favourite hijab. The ugly already stained office chair had been rolled over, and that was where Basira sat now, trying her best not to tremble. 

  
They had argued most about what they were going to cut off. They knew that having some sort of anchor would be the best way to do it safely, and a body part made sense. Melanie had suggested a finger at first- the pinky on her non dominant hand was her prime choice. But Basira had thought of something better. 

  
At the time, it had seemed like the perfect “fuck you” to Elias, and probably the easiest thing to remove that had a strong connection and the least possible amount of dehabilitation. 

  
She would be lying if she said she wasn't having second thoughts.   
Then Melanie moves in, and quickly and carefully, and cuts out her eye. 

  
The pain is blinding, red hot, and Basira can't help but scream. She hears Melanie cursing up a storm with the most vulgar language she’s ever heard, and then even more pain as the hot iron goes into her now open socket.   
And she passes out. 

  
When she wakes up, Melanie has mostly cleaned up the wound and the workspace, though Basira can still feel dried blood cracking on her face. The sting of disinfectant and the shiver-inducing sensation of cotton in her eye socket, as well as a surprisingly small dark section of her sight. The pain is still intense, though it's tapered off. Melanie turns back to her, clearly relieved, when she stirs. 

  
“I'm never doing that again,” she insists vehemently, and Basira chuckles a little weakly.   
“I wasn't planning on asking you to. Where…?”

  
Melanie already knows, and holds up a small, tightly sealed jar that reeks of formaldehyde that Basira doesn't want to know the origins of. There, suspended in the green liquid, is one semi-bloody eyeball.   
Basira shudders.

  
“I know,” Melanie said, setting the jar aside. “We should change the bandaging in a few hours, so I can put on some more disinfectant, but… other than that, it's done.”

  
Basira sets her jaw and stands despite the pain and starts walking towards the chained up coffin in the corner.   
“Hold up! Now? We agreed to wait at least a week!” Melanie said, chasing after her, tugging off her bloodstained gloves. 

  
“I'm not leaving her down there a second longer,” Basira said, glaring at Melanie with her one good eye. Melanie huffs, but the point had gotten through.

  
“At least put this on,” she said, offering up a plain black eye patch. Basira blinks. This wasn't something they’d agreed upon beforehand, but the gesture is surprisingly kind for Melanie. A bit hesitant, she tied it around the bandaging.   
It felt… weirdly ok. 

  
“Now,” Melanie said, gesturing towards the coffin. “Go get your girlfriend back.”

  
Basira flushes, and starts. “We- we’re not dating!”

  
Melanie smiles smugly. “Sure you aren't.” 

  
With a “hmph”, Basira leaves the plastic coated area and walks towards the coffin. She kneels, unlocks the chains, and opens the lid. 

  
And, staring down the Buried, she enters. 

  
As the lid closed behind her, Melanie carried over the glass jar and set it on the lid with a silent prayer to any benevolent being out there that things would work out. 

•=•=•

  
Jon’s silent despair is broken by a knock at the door. 

  
He looks over at it from where he’s been sitting in bed, still unclean and not dressed and unable to make himself do either. He’d been going through a photo album of Martin’s, feeling himself die a little more every time he saw his beaming freckled face, when the interruption came. 

  
He ignores it, hoping whoever it was would leave him be if he didn't reply. But a few seconds later, it repeated itself. The knocks came again, and again, heavier and louder. Jon stubbornly ignores them, letting the dull roar of the sea muffle his hearing. 

  
Eventually, there's a sigh from the other side of the door, and a voice began to speak.

  
“Jon, I know you're in there.” It was Georgie, Jon recognized faintly. She sounded as if she was miles away, her voice echoing faintly. There was a pause.

  
“Jon, you need to come out. Talk to somebody. This… this isn't healthy.”

  
Jon’s sitting on the sand, not the soft, pleasant white or yellow sand on other beaches, but cold, damp, gritty grey sand that leeches the heat out of him. He watches the endless waves, crested with foam and mist as thick as cigarette smoke, watching as they crash against the shore again and again. He hears her words, but they don't quite land. He knows they should mean something, but they don't.

  
“Even just- just go and visit the graveyard, if that's all you can do, ok? Get outside.” 

  
A wave smashes into him, icy saltwater flooding through his nose and mouth, pouring into his lungs. Then as fast as it came, it receded. Sputtering, he crawls further up the shore. The graveyard. The.. the grave. It's been months. What if it got broken? Or the flowers had died? 

  
“I'm here if you need me. I'm always here, ok?” 

  
Jon doesn't think she could see him even if she wanted to. 

  
“...goodbye, Jon.” 

  
Then footsteps fade, and… and Jon isn't on the shore anymore. He’s on his bed, suddenly sick with worry and what-ifs.   
He slips out, grabbing the closest sweater, a sunny yellow one that Martin used to wear constantly. It had a little tea stain on one of the cuffs. It still smelled like Martin, like… home, but the smell had grown weaker and fainter as the weeks stretched on and on. Along with a pair of jeans, mismatched socks and ratty tennis shoes, Jon fakes an outfit and rummages for his keys for a while before slipping out of his apartment. 

  
Even as he walks through London he feels… isolated. People seem to look right through him as if he wasn't really there, unconsciously avoiding him but never seeing him. It takes three tries before the woman in the flower shop even notices he’s at the counter with an armful of daffodils, even though she’s mere feet from the register where he was waiting. 

  
When Jon arrives at the cemetery, a chill follows him as he treks through the grass to a spot forever burned in his memory.   
It’s almost exactly the same as he remembers. Grass has grown over the dirt, though patchy at best and a sickly pale brown, as if it was dying. In fact, most of the vegetation around the grave was dead or dying. The old bouquet had crumbled into rot. He doesn't notice the oddity in that through his grief. 

  
The bouquet of daffodils are a stark yellow, mirroring the sweater he wore, compared to the grey stone and dark dirt. He sets them down so he can still read the message carved on the headstone. 

  
Before he knows it, he’s sat down, facing it as if it was an actual person, and the words come spilling out of his mouth.

  
“...Martin, I am so, so sorry.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hey this is. late af bc I wasn't sure how to start but I had Inspo and spit this out in an hour or so straight. seems like having the chapter be split with two different POV's works well, so expect that in the future. anyways Basira looks Sexy with an eyepatch and you can't change my mind.  
> the kind comments and kudos? <3   
> thanks for reading!!


	6. from the grave

The tape recorder still hasn't run out, and Martin suspects it never will.   
It spins, endlessly looping, rewriting upon itself. Sometimes he stops and just stares at it, mesmerized for who knows how long. He still hasn't stopped talking, rambling on and on about whatever came to mind. He feels a little crazy, but the silence would be worse, so he doesn't hesitate. 

  
That is, until he hears a voice. Jon’s voice. 

  
It’s muffled, like he’s underground, and raspy. But it's Jon, it's undeniably Jon, and Martin can't help but grin as his eyes well with tears.

  
“...Martin, I am so, so sorry,” Jon murmurs, and he sounds so heavy and wearier than ever before. 

  
“It's ok,” Martin calls back, voice thick with sobs, reaching out blindly into the darkness, though he’s not sure what he’s trying to grasp. “It’s ok, I'm here, I'm here, I'm here.” 

  
“...I feel numb, Martin. Hollow. Flimsy, like I'm not really here,” Jon continues, barely audible. 

  
“It's ok, stay with me, stay here, you're here with me,” He babbles, swiping at his eyes with his free hand. “Oh, god, Jon, it's been so quiet and dark, I- I’ve missed you so much it physically hurts.”

  
“...this is a bit crazy, isn't it? Talking to a… a…”

  
“What? Jon, Jon, can you hear me? Are you still there? Don't go, don't leave-” 

  
“I'm a bloody idiot. I could never manage to communicate my feelings when… Well, you'd think it'd be easier, now, but it isn't.” 

  
“...what?” Martin’s voice catches. “Jon, I'm here. I'm right here.” 

  
There was silence, and with a sinking realization, Martin realized that he wasn't. Whoever he was, and wherever Jon was, they were two different places. And Jon couldn't hear him. Jon couldn't- he didn't know, he-

  
“I… I think I loved you? That's such a silly realization to have now, isn't it?”

  
Martin can't hold back a sob. 

  
“Jon, I- I'm here,” he said weakly through his tears. “I- I've loved you for a long time, you, you idiot.” 

  
Jon sighs. “..I brought flowers. Daffodils. You mentioned them being your favourite once. I didn't forget.”

  
For the first time in a long time, Martin isn't walking. He’s on his knees, tears streaming down his cheeks, shaking with sobs. He clutches the cassette tape so tightly it almost hurts. 

  
“I keep dreaming of an ocean shore,” Jon says quietly. “It’s thick with mist, and cold and damp, and I feel numb… but it's not that bad, you know? It's lonely, but peaceful. I think staying there wouldn't be so bad.” 

  
“No. No. Jon, no. Don't stay. Don't- I'm not going to lose you!” Anger penetrates through the thick layer of sadness. He looks up at what might be the ceiling.

  
“...I don't know. Maybe this was ridiculous. I should get back.” Jon’s voice grew fainter, until it wasn't there at all. 

  
“Jon?” 

  
Martin calls out, shouting and crying until he realizes that Jon is undeniably gone. He sits for a bit in the darkness, mind reeling. 

  
He doesn't bother to turn around when he hears footsteps behind him. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> short chapter and a cliffhanger bUT the second part of this chapter will be up soon I pretty promise! It's a lot of dialogue too, but I didn't want to bog it up with unexcesary details and descriptions. anyways thanks for all the comments and kudos, you guys are awesome! thanks for reading<3


	7. terminus

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Martin has his first conversation and makes a choice.

“You’ve been here a while, haven’t you?” 

Martin looks over his shoulder, and standing behind him is a man. He was dark skinned, with neatly tied back dreadlocks, hands shoved in his pockets as he cocked his head at Martin. He had vitiligo, he noticed, pale patches that seemed to mirror the shape of the bones underneath. The darkness around him felt colder, more endless and black and hungry. 

“I-I need to get out,” he said stubbornly, lifting his chin and meeting the gaze of the other man. “I need to get back.” 

“Don’t we all?” the man said. He seemed so ridiculously calm that it made Martin antsy. He took another more focused impression of the man. 

“...are you.. the grim reaper or whatever?” Martin asked hesitantly, gripping the tape recorder like it was a lifeline. The man laughed, a small burst of genuine surprised amusement. 

“No. Well- maybe. I represent the End, if that’s what you meant.” 

“What’s your name?”

The man blinked, and paused, as if he was struggling to remember. 

“Hm. Oh, right. Oliver. Oliver Banks.” 

“I’m Martin. Martin Blackwood.” 

Oliver inclined his head in a sort of greeting. 

“I don’t get why you haven’t moved on,” he said, watching Martin with faint curiosity in his eyes. 

“I need to get back,” Martin repeated, more insistently. He clutched the tape recorder to his chest protectively. Oliver’s gaze flicked over to it. 

“Oh, you were one of the Ceaseless Watchers, were you?” He remarked, a little surprised. “I suppose that makes sense. Quite a few of you have passed recently.” 

“Let me get back,” Martin said, meeting Oliver’s dark, empty gaze. 

“You know you can’t do that. You already know that you’ll be here forever,” Oliver said softly. “I won’t lie to you, Martin. This is it.” 

“No.”

“You really can’t-“

“No.”

“It’s not something you can just-“ 

“I said  _ no _ .” 

His words seemed to slam into Oliver like a strong wind, knocking him off balance for a second and breaking his expressionless calm. For the first time in a long time, hope bloomed in Martin’s chest. 

Oliver seemed to pause, looking over the man in front of him and reconsidering.

“Maybe,” he muttered. 

“Maybe what?” Martin rose to his feet, using his full height to his advantage. 

“If you let it in. Maybe you’ll remain. Maybe you could… ‘get back’, as you say.” 

“How.” 

“This isn’t a choice to be made lightly,” Oliver said, dead eyes boring into Martin’s. “You’d be severed from the Eye, and become part of the End. If you can stay sane enough. And it accepts you. Nothing would be the same.” 

“It doesn’t need to be,” Martin said, jaw set. “Now. Show me how to get home.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oliver? Ooc bc I haven’t listened to any of his eps in ages? .... *sweats*   
> Anyways this ch is also short (oops) but ohoho we’re FINALLY getting to the point of this fic... don’t worry everyone gets a happy ending bc I put them through some Shit in this fic. next up is (hopefully ) Basira bringing her gf back and some Recovery there. also <3 <3 <3 to anyone who comments or follows, it makes me so happy to see people enjoying this fic!   
> thanks for reading!!

**Author's Note:**

> I'm putting off my next sdadmip chapter doing this. whoops. hopefully I can get the next chapter up fairly soon. if you want to check on my tumblr, it's @hoiding around the cosmere and my instagram is @redribbonmagpie. kudos and comments are the spice of life. thanks for reading!


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